


Ninety-Nine Seconds

by kikimori



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Arishok Fight, M/M, Major Character Injury, Missing Scene, POV Varric Tethras, Retrospective, Varric lied to Cassandra lmao, end of act 2, magical mishaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikimori/pseuds/kikimori
Summary: Seeker, if you’re reading this, you did mention that the fight sounded romantic. It’s because I told you the exact story we told Meredith. The glossy, rose tinted version of the shining Champion who saved the city from its demise. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what you wanted with Hawke. For all I knew you were going to send an army after him because you deem him too dangerous of a mage to allow free.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Kudos: 27





	Ninety-Nine Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> the age old prompt of 'Hawke gets really hurt during the Arishok fight.' i hope you enjoy!

_The following is an excerpt from The Champion of Kirkwall: Revised Edition, by Viscount Varric Tethras._

_Note: The fight against the Arishok was a lie in the original manuscript of ‘The Champion of Kirkwall.’ It was a heavily altered scene that was written as such to protect Hawke after what actually happened. Originally, it started as a tale I spun on the spot to avoid Meredith breaking down Hawke’s door and making him tranquil. Then, when I was writing the manuscript, it became a concern that templars may hunt him down and make him tranquil regardless._ _  
__  
__Seeker, if you’re reading this, you did mention that the fight sounded romantic. It’s because I told you the exact story we told Meredith. The glossy, rose tinted version of the shining Champion who saved the city from its demise. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what you wanted with Hawke. For all I knew you were going to send an army after him because you deem him too dangerous of a mage to allow free._

_Now, Hawke’s gone. I feel it’s more a disservice to him to keep it secret and keep this false myth alive. So please, allow me to amend it and elaborate on what really happened._

●●●

Ninety-nine seconds.

That is how long the fight against the Arishok lasted. Ninety-nine long, agonising seconds. I only know it lasted that long because of Fenris. I don’t think he noticed he was counting each second under his breath. It was soft, and I don’t think I would have noticed it if the circumstances were different. But that moment was different, with the air breathing cold against my neck, and the anxiety that bubbling beneath my rib. None of us really had an idea of what Hawke had stumbled recklessly into.

_One, two_

  
  
Hawke and the Arishok circle around each other. There was an uncertainty in Hawke’s step, and fingers anxiously tapping on his staff’s grip. His amber eyes remain fixated on the looming figure, who dragged sharp blades against metal cufflets. A blood curdling noise that lingered too long in the stagnant air. Hawke winces, taking a slow step backward.

The Arishok notices the fault in Hawke’s stance, and lunges forward. 

_Fifteen, sixteen_

The Arishok’s sword meets the blade of Hawke’s staff. The metal clatters in the air. Hawke’s arm buckles underneath the weight. Bringing the sword closer to Hawke’s body. Hawke, crumbling under the weight of the heavy sword, takes the chance to fire lightning from his fingertips. A purple, snake like bolt that fires from his hand and electrifies grey skin. It was enough to make the Arishok flinch and stagger backward. A chance opening for Hawke to lunge again. The blade of his staff raised, with water-like flames running against the metal. 

  
It was impulsive, even for Hawke.

_Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three_

The dark eyes of the Arishok watch as Hawke hastily attempts to slash at him. Despite the desperation that clung to Hawke’s movements, he still managed to catch the Qunari in the moment of vulnerability. His staff dug into the hardened painted, grey skin, wedging itself into the Arishok’s shoulder blade.

The perplexing thing was how the Arishok stared at Hawke. With a dead gaze and a sullen frown. A moment that lingered too long in the air. No shout of pain or anguish to follow Hawke’s action. Only a continuation of ringing silence that made my stomach churn.

The tension in that moment became thick, and made it too hard to breathe.

_Fifty-Nine, Sixty_

The Arishok lets out a huff, and hurtles Hawke toward the closest wall. A sickening crack echoing against the walls of the Viscount’s Keep. Watching Hawke fall to the ground, a sharp breath filling his lungs. Arms weakly struggling to push himself from the cold, dirt ridden flooring of the Keep.

Isabela gasped from behind me. A small little thing that didn’t reassure what we were all feeling. The innate dread that Hawke was about to meet his demise long settled in.

_Seventy-One, Seventy-two_

The Arishok grows tired of Hawke’s miserable display. A large hand wraps around Hawke’s staff, still embedded into his shoulder. He rips it from his shoulder, unphased by the thick liquid that oozes from his wound. He threw the staff behind him, and we watched it clatter against the ground. Bouncing with each of its movements.

He turned his sharp gaze back toward Hawke. He swung his injured arm with full movement, the metal dancing under the candlelight.

“Oh isn’t that lovely.” Anders groans underneath his breath from behind me. “The bastard doesn’t feel pain.”

The Arishok charges.

_Eighty-Six, Eighty-Seven_

Hawke watches the Arishok run towards him. Metal boots ringing in the air, marching closer toward him. He staggers upward, slowly finding himself to his feet. He takes a raspy breath, and you can see the slight tremor in his body.

He stands for a moment. Honey eyes fall upon his staff on the other end of the hall.

_Eighty-Nine, Ninety_

Hawke’s hands engulf into orange flames. Dancing along the leather, and a determined glare manifests in Hawke’s eyes.We all knew he was making a charge for the staff. The fireworks were some feeble attempt to deter the Arishok. 

He throws the fireball at the Qunari’s feet, spewing flames onto the stone floor. Hawke took the chance to lunge forward. 

_Ninety-Five_

The Arishok’s large hand grabs Hawkes shoulder as he charges forward. Pushing him into a more vulnerable position, his chest exposed to the Arishok. Nails dug under Hawkes armour, and a yelp of anguish passed his jaw. Hawke buckles under the strong grip.

_Ninety-Six_

The Arishok raises his blade and thrusts it into Hawke’s chest. With a sickening crunch filling the air of his ribcage snapping from the attack. His body slides along the blade, like a sorry ragdoll with dangling limbs. Leaving a red trail along the shining metal. A wet gasp was the only thing that filled the dead air.

_Ninety-Seven_

Hawke’s eyes cloud over in a crimson colour. Sparks began to flicker over Hawke’s skin, courascating through his armour. Crackling in the air, making loud pops. His arms moved slowly, fingers finding the hilt of the Arishok’s sword and feebly wrapping around it.

_Ninety-Eight_

The red flash erupts from Hawke’s body, with a shout that fills the air. It was blinding, and pricked your eyes with needles. I had to raise my hand to guard my face. My ears rang from the noises that suddenly roared to life.

_Ninety-Nine_

The Arishok laid dead once the flash died out. Ripped apart by the magic that engulfed Hawke. Organs spilling from the halves of the Arishok, and dark coloured blood pooling from his shredded corpse. The scent of the room became metallic with an underlying scent of smouldering flesh, burning your nose. The kind of smell that travels to the back of your throat.

In the middle of it, was Hawke.

Curled in a fetal position, the sword still stuck between his chest. Sticky blood clinging to his skin. The scary thing was that he couldn’t stop trembling, with short breaths being the only thing that rang in the air.  
  
Fenris was the first one there. Carefully stepping over grey flesh and dark coloured organs, finding his way to Hawke’s crippled form. He crouches over Hawke, his face failing to show any form of emotion.

(Except his eyes, however. Worry practically burned through them as he tended to Hawke.)

We followed in suit: Isabela, Anders and I. I couldn’t say I felt anxious. It reads horrible, I know. But what I felt in that moment was only my limbs falling numb, and that I wasn’t in control of my own body anymore. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing, and overtime I’ve come to accept I was in denial of what exactly I had just witnessed.

Fenris’ clawed gloves rolled Hawke’s shoulder with a gentle ease. Careful not to harm Hawke further as he began to inspect him. Hawke’s head rolled backwards, his eyes seemingly unresponsive. The red colour draining his sclera, revealing glazed over honey eyes that didn’t register how we all lingered above him.

Fenris swore using a Tevene phrase that I should know by now. His fingertips find their way to the crook between Hawke’s jaw and his neck. Pressing the area firmly.

A pause. Before Fenris lets out a sigh of relief. “He’s still alive.”  
  
“Well maybe you should move out the way so I can _keep_ him alive.” Anders retorts, his tone straddling between anger and anxious. The quip coming off rushed and lingered in the air for too long. 

Fenris’ eyes narrow, before moving away silently. His cold gaze fell upon Anders as the healer took his place. Tracing his fingers carefully over the sword and the wound, with a blue radiating from his fingers. 

The colour drains from Anders’ face. He slowly moves his bloody hand back, and turns to us. His jaw hanging loose and eyebrows knitting together. He turns his attention back to Hawke. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Isabela arches her eyebrow. “Go slow. Tell us the good news.” She responds, her tone lacking it’s normal embellishments. Instead it fell flat, underlied with a sense of urgency.

Anders frowns. “The sword is still in him. He would already be dead if it wasn’t.”

I coughed. “And the bad news?”

Anders shakes his head. “He can’t breathe. We’ll need to get him out of here so I can treat him. I’d suggest my clinic, but his manor is closer.”  
  
Isabela clicks her tongue. Tapping her cheek as her eyes fall dark, glazing over in a haze. “Varric and I will look for Aveline. Explain to her what happened and try to stop Meredith on figuring out about the… magic exploding thing.” She shakes her head. “You two try to get him somewhere where you can deal with the… injury.”  
  
I couldn’t begin to tell you what was racking Isabela’s mind at that moment. Yet it went unspoken to go with her idea, none of us had thought of anything better. There was no debate, let alone resistance from either Fenris or Anders. 

Anders was much too engrossed in stabilizing Hawke with his healing aura. Fenris, on the other hand, has seemingly gone beyond his limits. Remaining silent instead of arguing against being left with Anders. If it weren’t Hawke bleeding on the dirty ground, I’m sure he would have.

“Send us an update, please.” I muster. “The anticipation of learning what happened is always worse than the news itself, or so I’m told.” Before I felt a hand pressed on my shoulder. I looked up at the warm touch to see Isabela. Remorse tugging at the ends of her lips and lingering behind her eyes. The mischievous flame she so proudly wore was long extinguished from the events that just transpired.  
  
“Let’s go.” She urges. “Aveline is the only one who can… cover this bullshit up.”

I nod, and give a sullen look to Hawke. Still unaware of his surroundings, still too little movement in his limbs.  
  
To see Hawke like that will always be among some of my worst memories. The kind that sneak up on you while you sleep, and would turn even the best dream into a nightmare with its touch. Perhaps that's a bad analogy, considering that I’m a dwarf, but it’s the only way I can really describe the dread thinking about it invokes.

●●●

The shock that grew in Aveline’s eyes was brief, before an anger began to burn behind her green eyes when we had finally found her and granted her the news.

The Guard Captain pointed to me and declared. “I’m pointing Meredith in your direction, Varric.”

I stared at her for a moment. “But why?”  
  
Aveline raised an eyebrow. “You’re the best liar I know. If she knows what happened, she’ll foam at the mouth for letting a mage who could… do what Hawke did… slip through the cracks.” She shudders. 

My mouth goes dry, and I give a nod to Aveline. She turned to her guards and headed toward the Keep, with them following her eagerly to clean up whatever mess had awaited her. 

After that exchange, Isabela and I picked up Merrill from the Alienage and told her of what happened as we took her to the Hanged Man. 

“It could be blood magic. If he got stabbed and exploded with magic.” Merrill mumbled into her drink, tipsy only after drinking half of the ale in the pint. “But I wasn’t there… how should I know?” 

  
She pouted sadly, and tears prick into her eyes. “I wish I was… then I could’ve helped Anders and have a more straight answer for you.”  
  
Isabela sighs, and gives a light pat on her shoulder. “Kitten, it’s not your fault. If it’s anyone’s it’s mine. I shouldn’t have dragged you all into this stupid relic shit.”

“Rivani. I don’t think Hawke would want any of us blaming ourselves over… his accident.” I commented, swirling the piss-coloured ale in my pint. “All we can do is hope Anders is able to bring him back from death's door.”

Isabela scoffed. “That’s easier said than done.” 

We fell back in silence. Listening to humble murmurings of those who took refuge in the inn when the Qunari attacked, and spilled sour ale on each other. Too unaware of the event that scratched at our minds constantly. My hands would refuse to remain idle. Instead I found myself shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards I nabbed from some couple who weren’t paying much attention. Offered enough distraction from what I had just witnessed.

It passed the time we waited for word on Hawke’s condition. When it did come, it came with one of Aveline’s guards.

A young, stout lady who had introduced herself as Officer Clementine. Claimed that Aveline posted her infront of Hawke’s mansion to act as courier if news arises. She gave us the hastily written note, clearly in Anders’ own nigh illegitimate handwriting, before leaving us to wallow in our misery. 

I’ve copied the note out below for you to read. But at the time, I read it out to Isabela and Merrill. In our little secluded corner that was rank with the smell that will always remind me of burning rubbish. They leaned in, with intent glittering in their eyes and ears ready to hear the news bestowed upon us.

_Varric,_

_  
__Hawke’s is in a critical but stable condition. I’ll have to stay with him to make sure he doesn’t get worse. He can still too easily slip into the state he was when you left him to find Aveline. The magic I used will work slowly and his lungs may never recover properly from the trauma. The wound I have managed to stitch up. That will most definitely scar, nothing I can do about that._

_He’s asleep now. But when we started to heal him he wouldn’t settle. It’s like the magic he self combusted with still ran in his veins and didn’t accept any foreign magic to intervene when I started trying to heal him properly. It took a while, but eventually we managed to push the remaining magic out and start giving him proper aid._

_The Warden-Commander explained to me that she self combusted with magic once when they captured and took her to Fort Drakon when I was travelling with her. Apparently they wanted to make her tranquil for it because it killed a couple of guards. I now wonder if it’s a family thing, because they’re the only mages I know who have reacted so violently to trauma or stress inflicted on their body._

_Regardless, I don’t think it’s wise to let any templar be aware of it based on that story Commander Amell told me. I’ll let you know if anything changes._

_Blondie_

  
  


●●●

I didn’t see Hawke again for a week. Not until we got word he was well enough for the rest of us to see. The only ones who did see him were Anders and Fenris, ironically enough.

Anders, because he was keeping Hawke alive, obviously. 

Fenris, well, because of the awkward situation that still circled the pair at the time. 

Anders was leaving when I arrived. He had to go back to his clinic to tend to his other patients as he’s neglected them for long enough. He said he’ll be back later to check on Hawke.

“And the elf, Blondie?” I asked as Anders fixed his dark grey wolfskin coat over his shoulders. Brushing the strands with his calloused fingers.

  
He raised an eyebrow. “He went home a while ago. Hawke told him to.”

I arched an eyebrow and watched Anders leave. Mumbling about how blighted cold it was and slamming the door behind him. I stayed for a moment, looking at the intricate designs on the door. I took a deep breath, and tried to quell any sense of anxiety that bubbled in my chest.

Once I collected my composure again, I went to meet Hawke in his room, the master suite tucked at the end of the hall. I knocked thrice on his embellished mahogany door, and waited. The moment between then and when Hawke let me in dragging out longer than it should have. I found myself staring at the silver crest that hung on the wall adjacent to where I was standing. It didn’t do much to shake the nervousness that clung to me tightly with its long fingernails, and when it gripped tighter into my chest when I heard his voice telling me to come in.

Hawke was sitting in his bed when I arrived. The crimson silken duvets wrapped loosely around his large body. With a leather bound book in his hand that he was scribbling in. He didn’t wear a shirt, probably because cotton would have gotten snagged on the stitches across his chest.

  
The stitches were, indeed, an ugly sight. With the copper-coloured threads tightly keeping the wound together, with purple bruising discolouration painted along Hawke’s pale skin. The most garish thing was the deep red colour of the wound Hawke has sustained, that seemingly had long ago scabbed over. 

His eyes lit up when they fell upon me, and a mischievous grin tugged at the end of his cheeks. He snapped the book in his hand closed and threw it onto his bed.“Well, well, well. Isn’t it my favourite dwarf?” Hawke gleamed, before his face suddenly fell. “Oh, I hope Bodahn and Sandal didn’t hear that…”

I gave a sly smile to the man. “I’m glad to see the almighty Champion of Kirkwall is doing fine.”

Hawke’s face perked up. His thick brow knitted together; his jaw hung agape and stupidly. “Champion of Kirkwall? You’re pulling my leg.” Hawke waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t think what happened was heroic.”

I shook my head. A large smile crossed my lips. “As true as that can be. Dwarfs honour… or something to that effect.” 

I turned my gaze toward the room, bathed in an amber light, radiating from the flickering embers of Hawke’s fireplace. The air smelled of smoke and freshly baked cinnamon. I eventually landed my gaze upon a velvet lined chair. Sat next to Hawke’s bedside, left in an awkward position in Hawke’s room.

I frowned, it's probably where Anders sat himself during the ordeal. I found my way to the seat and planted my arse on it regardless.

“Do you remember…” I begin, fixing my crimson jacket over my shoulders. “What happened then?”  
  
“Oh you mean when I got skewered by the Arishok?” Hawke said with a chuckle. “I remember the skewering bit. Not anything really after that.” 

“Not the exploding bit?”  
  
“Definitely not the exploding bit.” Hawke shaked his head. He raised a hand to scratch his coarse beard. “I didn’t actually believe Anders when he told me that part of the story. Fenris gave it away. When I asked him and…”  
  
Hawke trails off, and turns toward the fireplace. A bleak smile crosses his lips, and he fiddles with the ends of his duvet with his bruised fingertips. “He’s got this look, when something is true but he doesn’t want to be the one to say it. He just stared at me like that, and that’s all I needed to know.” He muttered slowly, his words lacking the glib I’ve come to expect from Hawke. “It’s scary to think I’m capable of such things.”  
  
He shakes his head. Before the glimmer behind his honey eyes reignited. His sharp gaze shifting back towards me. A smile tugging once again at his chapped lips. “Champion of Kirkwall, huh? Thought you needed a Viscount for that.” He grins, the snark lacing each of his words.

I looked towards him, and gave a nonchalant shrug. “It’s what the citizens of Kirkwall are calling you, So Knight-Commander Meredith reluctantly had to bestow such a _divine_ and _glorious_ title upon you, Messere Hawke.”

It was silent for a moment, before I quickly found myself quickly trying to fill the stagnant air. “Speaking of Meredith, we’ve made sure nobody actually knows about the exploding, skewering bit.” I quickly said. “She thinks you defeated him in some noble fight and you’re just nursing a broken bone.”

  
“A half truth, my dear friend. Or maybe a quarter truth.” Hawke cackled. “Good, nice to know I’m not going to be hauled off and made tranquil.”  
  
He paused, and gently leaned back on the dark red wooden bedhead. His chin tilted upward, and a soft sigh passing his lips. “Garrett Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall. It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”  
  



End file.
